


Counterpoint

by orange_eclipse



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Intense fluff, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_eclipse/pseuds/orange_eclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus’ self-discipline was admirable. But there was no hiding the tired stoop of his shoulders from the practiced eyes of a medic. Especially not this medic. /Prime’verse. Mild slash. Intense fluff. Oneshot.\</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterpoint

It had been hours since Ratchet had tried to turn in for the night. His processor chugged along far too slowly for his liking, and recharge beckoned. And yet he found himself still online, counting each tick of his internal clock as it droned monotonously onward. Every creak from the rooms around sounded too loud in the stillness. He could hear Bulkhead's rattling snore, Bumblebee's faint, electrical hum, Arcee's gentle whirr, all shifting and settling in a disorganized kind of harmony. But there was still one missing. And so he was still online, waiting for the sounds he knew he wasn't going to hear. The sound of steady footsteps passing his room. The sound of the door at the end of the hall sliding open and then shut. The sound of a heavy frame settling into its berth, and powering down for some much-needed rest. The soft, rumbling bass note that indicated a certain Prime had finally wound down into stasis.

Damn that mech to the Pit.

Ratchet knew exactly what he was going to find when he left his room. A little over four hours had passed since he had left, demanding that Optimus finish up soon and get some rest. And just as he had expected (feared), Optimus might as well have been riveted to the ground for all that he had moved. He stood at the terminal, exactly where Ratchet had left him, fingers ticking away at the keyboard. His optics skimmed up and down line after line of bright text, mouth set in a grim line of determination. Ratchet looked his posture over with a critical eye. His self-discipline was admirable. But there was no hiding the tired stoop of his shoulders from the practiced eyes of a medic.

Especially not this medic.

“Optimus.”

Ratchet's voice crackled with warning. Optimus glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to the screen, leaving Ratchet to fume behind him. “You already know what I'm going to say, old friend.”  
  
Ratchet heaved a long-suffering sigh. He did know. That was the worst part. “That you can't afford to stop yet. Not with so much at stake.” He didn't need to see Optimus' face to see his small, weary smile. Oh, yes. They both knew this conversation well. They had repeated it many times, under many circumstances, in many forms, to the point where even having it was just going through the motions. They already knew how it was going to end. “You'll tell me that this is more important than anything else right now, and that you can't afford to lose a single moment.”  
  
The incessant click-click-click of the keyboard slowed. “You'll tell me that even Decepticons have to recharge,” Optimus said. “A few hours' rest will not compromise our mission. An exhausted leader, however...”

“You'll say that you have no other choice.” Ratchet put his hand on Optimus' elbow. Optimus paused, tilting his head, and Ratchet took the opportunity to study his face. He had begun to notice weeks ago, but now, in the dim glow of the terminal, he could see in greater detail the worn look in Optimus' eyes. They shone a dull blue-grey instead of neon blue, as though he was having trouble keeping them online. “In this situation, the safety of many outweighs the needs of one.”

“You will tell me that I should take my own advice more often.” Optimus rested one hand on top of Ratchet's, offlining his optics. “You'll insist that I hardly have any right to speak of the importance of teamwork, when I spend so much time taking the burdens of others upon myself.”

“And you'll sigh and give me a smile that shouldn't be as tired as it is, because you know I'm right.”

And there it was, exactly as Ratchet had described. Optimus didn't bother to online his optics. “At this point, you generally threaten to either tranquilize me, or find some other method of inducing stasis. Anything to get me off my feet and into a berth somewhere.”

Ratchet chuckled flatly. “And of course you won't move a piston, because you know better than to believe the idle threats of a frustrated medic.”

“Perhaps.” Now Optimus' voice was colored with warm amusement. “Or perhaps I'm still waiting for him to grasp the irony in the fact that he scolds me for not getting enough rest, while expecting me to believe that he wasn't waiting up for me.”  
  
Ratchet clicked his dental plates shut, sufficiently chastised. A low rumble of laughter rolled up in Optimus' chest, and despite his own acute embarrassment, Ratchet couldn't hold back a smile of his own. As always, nothing escaped Optimus Prime. He hadn't made it this far by being unobservant, after all. He was patient, clever, and just as careful with the details of his companions as he was with those of his enemies.

“You can hardly blame me for worrying about you,” Ratchet sniffed, covering his own discomfiture with an aggravated tone of voice. “Are you planning to power down at all tonight, or should I prepare to resuscitate you in the morning? You won't enjoy the process, I can assure you.”

Optimus squeezed his hand gently. Up until that moment, Ratchet had completely forgotten that he had left it on Optimus' arm. Now he felt even less inclined to remove it. “I will be fine,” Optimus said. Ratchet frowned, skeptical, and Optimus arched an eyebrow at his unspoken protest. “I know my own limits, and I have not yet reached them. When I do, I will cease work for the time being and rest. I promise.”

“You'd better,” Ratchet groused, ignoring the silent laughter that flickered through Optimus' expression. At least his optics were looking brighter now. That was always a plus. “Otherwise I _will_ drop you into stasis. Without prior consent, might I add.”

Optimus said nothing, but that smile remained, nestled softly into his faceplate. He removed his hand, his fingers resuming their stately dance across the keyboard. Ratchet looked him over once more, his own optics dim with thought. Optimus still looked tired. That hadn't changed. He had been tired for days now, and he would continue to be for days yet to come, so long as there were duties to attend to and a war to win. But he seemed more relaxed than he had been when Ratchet came to find him. He had been a crackling ball of tension before, wound so tight that he might well have overcharged the terminal if he wasn't careful. Now he seemed much more at ease.

“Ratchet.”  
  
The voice startled him out of his thoughts. Ratchet withdrew his hand from its place at Optimus' elbow, straightening his spine. “Ah— Yes? What is it?”  
  
Optimus paused once more in his typing. He reached out to drop a firm hand on Ratchet's shoulder, giving him one last smile. “You aren't the only one who knows how to listen for signs of stasis. Get some rest. I will know if you don't.”  
  
Ratchet frowned at him, and there was that slow, rolling laugh again that crested broad and full, and sank back into a silent trough. It had been a long time since Ratchet had heard that laugh. Almost in spite of himself, warmth curled in his spark. “You realize that if we both wait to hear from the other, neither one of us will ever get any rest,” he said with a sniff, pushing the feeling aside. “I can't call that a very effective plan.”  
  
“Then I suppose you will have to trust me, won't you?”

“ _Fine._ ” Ratchet shrugged off Optimus' hand, ignoring that knowing smile that was coming close to infuriating him. “But only because you're our leader. I should hope you of all bots would know better than to run yourself into the ground. Just remember that if you do, I'll be the one patching you up. And you won't want to deal with me afterward.”

Optimus looked as though he might have said something more, but Ratchet was already stomping away, grumbling to himself. Despite his tendency to overwork himself on occasion, he knew he could trust Optimus to take care of himself. He did know his limits. He knew when he could push on a little further, _just enough_ further, and when he needed to stop.

But there was always the possibility that something might go wrong. And Ratchet would be prepared for that eventual outcome, whether Optimus liked it or not.

He had meant to disobey Optimus' request (order) and wait up a little longer, but his own exhaustion caught up with him as soon as he hit his berth. He awoke several hours later, cursing and growling at himself, half-expecting to need to storm outside and spew vitriol at his dear old friend until he finally gave in—but he could feel it even before he stopped to listen, the familiar four-part harmony of his comrades at rest. Rattle-snore from Bulkhead. Energized hum from Bumblebee. Graceful whirr from Arcee. And the low pedal-tone of Optimus' systems winding down, underscoring and supporting the other three.

Ratchet allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He sank back into his berth, and this time it only took a moment for him to drift down into stasis as well (a smooth, mellow tone that hummed quietly beneath the others). The rest of their troubles could wait until tomorrow. For now, it was about time _all_ of the members of Team Prime got some well-deserved sleep. 


End file.
